by Mary Daheim
“I have no idea.” I felt as if I were pillorying the poor girl. “Look, maybe it’s advantageous for your grandfather to get away. Phoebe’s right. He’s been through a lot, losing Mark. You’ve all suffered this past week. And Palm Springs isn’t exactly the Amazon Jungle.”
From the expression on Jennifer’s face, they were one and the same to her. “My father says the sheriff won’t let Neeny go. Not until they’ve caught my brother’s killer.”
That sounded like a strange—and suggestive—remark, coming from Simon Doukas. “Did Milo say that?”
Jennifer shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him? There he is now.”
Sure enough, Milo Dodge’s Cherokee Chief had pulled up out front. I could see the vehicle’s outline under the light I’d put on in the carport. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:20. Tom had taken me at my word.
Jennifer didn’t want to stick around to talk to Milo. She went out as he came in, and I was left on the porch, feeling inadequate. Not only had I failed to console Jennifer, I’d ended up sowing doubts and doling out more bad news. Jennifer Doukas MacDuff had shown poor judgment in choosing a confidante.
“What was that all about?” inquired Milo, still wearing his rumpled suit and looking bone tired.
“Come in. I’ll tell you.” I offered him Jennifer’s place on the sofa and a fresh can of pop. He accepted both, and from out in the kitchen, I heard him utter a long sigh as he sat down.
“Did you think I’d been killed?” I asked with a grin as I handed him his soda.
“Your adviser thought so,” replied Milo. “Or is he dating Vida?”
I gave Milo a steady look. “He’s not dating anybody. He’s been married for years.”
Milo’s hazel eyes were ironic. “Oh? Funny, he doesn’t act married.”
“Knock it off, Milo.” My voice had a rough edge to it. “You ought to be grateful he’s helping with the case.” I stopped short of telling Milo everything, but I recounted Jennifer’s concerns for her grandfather. Milo wasn’t pleased about Phoebe’s proposed trip.
“I can’t stop them from going without causing a major war, but it would be better if they stuck around.” Milo put his feet up on the coffee table. “They may be able to answer some questions. Like Chris.”
“Are you hinting that Neeny may have killed Hector?” I asked.
“I don’t hint things, Emma.” He gave me a disapproving look. “If you’re talking motive, Neeny had one for getting rid of Hector. But I still like the way Vida originally said he’d go about it—with money. Neeny could buy anybody off.”
I tried to picture Hector Ramirez, Hispanic laborer, who had married into a wealthy small-town family. I didn’t know what Hector looked like, but I had an inkling of how he felt. “Hector was proud, I think.”
“But Neeny is stubborn.” Milo made a slashing gesture with his hand. “And no way do I believe Neeny killed his grandson.”
“Or Gibb?”
“Gibb’s a different matter.” Milo sank back against the cushions and yawned.
“Go home,” I said. “You’re tired. So am I.” I gave him a feeble smile.
“Yeah.” He took a swig of soda. “One thing, though.” His high forehead furrowed as he regarded me across the space taken up by the coffee table. “We just got some tire tracks back from the road into Reiter and the gravel pit. Your Jag sure gets around, Emma.” His expression was vaguely abject. “I guess you were right about your car getting swiped.”
Right or wrong, it was still a shock. It made me a bit queasy to think that while I sat inside the Adcocks’ living room, Gibb Frazier’s murderer was using my car. Suddenly my Jag lost some of its charm. I was staring open-mouthed at Milo.
“Can I have the keys?” he asked.
With an effort, I recovered my voice. “Why ask? Nobody else does.”
“The extra set is gone,” said Milo. “Whoever stole them probably wanted to make damned sure no prints showed up. I’d guess they’ve floated out to Puget Sound by now.”
I’d never looked to see if the spare keys were still in place. “You’re going to check the car now?” I asked.
He’d gotten up and had gone to the window. “Sam and Dwight just pulled up. They’ve got the gear. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Great.” I waved at my purse which was at the end of the sofa. “My keys are in there, right on top.”
Milo bent over, then straightened up abruptly. “What’s this?” He was holding the Ramada Inn laundry bag with Mark’s leather jacket. I’d left it there throughout the entire weekend.
“Take that, too,” I said with a sigh of resignation. “I forgot I had it.” It was true. Sort of.
Milo opened the front door and called to Dwight Gould who took the keys and the bag.
I glanced through the window, watching Sam Heppner open my car. “I wonder where you’ll find the green paint.”
“What?” Milo was still at the door. The cool air felt good. “Oh, you mean from the dent.”
“Right.” The phone rang; it was Tom.
“Are you all right? What’s happening? Did Dodge show up?” Tom’s voice was full of concern, and I could hear Vida yapping at him in the background.
I took a deep breath. My watch said it was after nine. No wonder Tom was worried. “Milo’s here. Everything’s fine. Listen, Tom,” I said, wishing Milo wasn’t watching me so closely, “I’m going to head for bed. You and Vida had better go home. It’s been a long day.”
There was a moment of silence. “Fine,” said Tom. He clicked off.
Milo was still gazing at me. “Will you be all right alone?”
I lifted my chin. “Of course.”
Milo raised a hand in salute and loped out the front door. His deputies continued to subject my poor Jag to all sorts of scientific humiliations. I considered going outside to confer with them, but thought better of it. I’d had enough crime for one day. Besides, other matters had come home to roost for the night. I’d told Tom I was with Milo, and I was going to bed. Tom had become quite terse. Tomorrow, he would go into Seattle before I could explain. I could call him at the lodge, but it would be presumptuous of me to think an explanation was needed. Why should Tom—a married man—care what I did? Why should I care what he thought? Why should he think I was doing anything wrong? And why wasn’t I?
There were times when I thought the opposite sex was not a good idea. This was definitely one of them.
Chapter Sixteen
THE FIRST CALL of the morning came from one of the last people I would have expected—Cecelia Doukas. At 7:35 A.M., just before I was about to leave for the office, she phoned to ask me over for a quick cup of coffee. While I was in a hurry to get to work, I could hardly refuse the invitation.
As I drove over to Stump Hill, I kept expecting the Jag to apologize to me for hauling a killer around. I squirmed a bit on the leather upholstery, trying to visualize who had sat in my place Saturday night. Maybe it was just as well I didn’t know, or I might not have been able to drive the car at all.
The sheriff’s deputies had left without telling me much. They’d have to wait for lab reports, Sam Heppner told me in his laconic manner. Obviously, they had not come up with the cliché cigarette butt or slip of paper bearing a mysterious phone number.
As I expected, Simon Doukas’s car was gone from the driveway that led up to the Dutch Colonial in The Pines. I didn’t think Cece would invite me over if Simon was around.
On this first morning after her son’s burial, Cecelia Doukas appeared calm. I couldn’t tell if her manner was induced by tranquilizers or an inner strength I’d never attributed to her. In any event, she was as well groomed as usual, in charcoal gray slacks and a light gray sweater. She led me into her big, airy kitchen, all white, with a few black accents. The only color in the room was a huge bouquet of autumn flowers, probably sent in memory of Mark.
“I know you’re busy,” Cecelia began, pouring us each a cup of coffee. “I’ll be brief.” She sat do
wn across the dining counter from me on a matching stool. “Neeny and Phoebe are leaving tonight for Palm Springs. Jennifer says you told her they had gotten married. How on earth did you learn that?”
I reflected briefly on my need to protect sources. “We found out during the course of the investigation. Someone called the Clark County Court House in Las Vegas. They verified that there had been a marriage between the two parties back in August. You remember the trip?”
“Certainly.” She offered sugar and cream. “I had no idea they’d gotten married. Neither did Simon.” Cece’s expression was melancholy. “I hope Neeny was sensible enough to have a prenuptial agreement drawn up. He didn’t ask Simon to do it. That I know.”
I could imagine Simon’s fury when he learned of the elopement. And, if that is what it was, it occurred to me that Neeny probably hadn’t bothered to consult a lawyer in Vegas. “Couldn’t Neeny rectify any future unfairness by making a new will?”
“Perhaps.” Cece gave me a wispy smile. “Isn’t life peculiar? So often it blindsides us. I feel as if I’d been knocked down by a logging truck. Will I ever get up again?”
“You haven’t any choice,” I said frankly. “We have to get up if only so we can be knocked down the next time.”
She saw the bitterness in my face and nodded. “Yes—I suppose you’ve had your share of trouble, too. It happens to everyone. But this all seems to have come at once.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “All of it.”
I had the feeling she wasn’t just talking about Mark’s death and Neeny’s marriage. “You mean Chris coming back?”
“Chris?” She seemed surprised. “Oh, well, I suppose, in a way. It’s funny, though—it seems as if he was here a long time ago. So much else has happened.”
I studied her for a moment in silence. “I gather you don’t think Chris killed Mark.”
Cecelia picked up her mug and stared blindly at the glass-fronted cupboards behind me. “I don’t want to think anybody killed him. If I knew who had, then I’d be forced to accept the fact that he’s dead.” Carefully putting the mug down, she gave me another tremulous smile, the tears still standing in her blue eyes. “That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all.” It had taken me weeks to grapple with the idea that I’d lost both parents. The call from the State Patrol, the visit to the funeral home, the memorial mass hadn’t really sunk in. I was going through the motions. It wasn’t really me. Those two dead people couldn’t possibly be my mother and father. The realization hit me only when their birthdays, just four days apart, came along that September. “Did you know Phoebe was trying to see Simon last Wednesday night?”
“Yes. She called right after Simon left to take Chris back to your house. I told her my husband was going to stop by his office and she might catch him there.” The blue eyes widened. “Oh! Do you think she intended to tell him she and Neeny had gotten married?”
I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Wouldn’t it have been better for Neeny to tell Simon? But Phoebe never found Simon.” Again, I felt like the scourge of the Doukas women. “Your husband didn’t show up at the Clemans Building.”
Cece brushed at the tears with her fingertip. “No. He went somewhere else.” She tilted her chin, looking both proud and vulnerable.
“I trust it was somewhere that gave him an alibi,” I said, wanting to kick myself under the counter.
“It was.” Her voice had turned cold. “But Simon would never use it.”
I had to assume that Cecelia Doukas wasn’t as naive as she seemed. She must know about her husband’s alleged affair with Heather Bardeen. It occurred to me that Heather might have tried to get revenge on Mark by sleeping with his father. No wonder Cece was so disillusioned with her life. “Do you think that skeleton could be Hector Ramirez?” I asked, going for a more neutral, if equally grim topic.
“It’s possible. I’d hate to think so. I just want all this to end. It’s not nice.”
“Did you know Hector very well?”
She shook her head. “Margaret and Hector kept to themselves a lot. I saw him occasionally. He seemed well-mannered. But he didn’t fit in, not with the family, not with the town. Neeny was quite unkind to him, and Simon felt the cultural differences were too great. It would have been better if he and Margaret had stayed in Seattle. People there are all rather different.” She slid off the stool, going to get the coffeepot. I declined; I was already late. “By the way, I have no alibi for Wednesday night, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.” She set the pot down and leaned on the counter, facing me. “Tell me, Emma—do you think I murdered my son?”
Impulsively, I put my hand on hers. It was ice cold. “No, Cecelia. I’m a mother, too, remember.”
She gave her imitation of a smile. “Of course. Simon won’t let me forget.” She looked apologetic.
“You mean he won’t let you forget I’m an unmarried mother.”
Cecelia gave a sad shake of her head. I assumed it was not for me but for her husband.
Vida all but dragged me into the office. “Where’ve you been? I’ve got Chris on the phone!” She practically hurled me toward her desk. “Line two,” she hissed.
“Chris? Where are you?” I was shouting into the earpiece. I turned the receiver around and repeated myself.
Chris’s voice was calm. “I’m in Seattle. I never got to L.A.”
Maybe that accounted for the fact that Milo’s APB hadn’t brought in any results. “Where have you been?”
“San Francisco. It’s a cool place, but it costs too much to stay there. Everybody in San Francisco said L.A. had too much smog and too many nut cases. So I came back here.” He sounded very matter-of-fact.
“Chris, let me ask you something.” Even as I spoke, I scrawled a note to Vida, asking if Tom had left for Seattle. She didn’t know. “Did you find a message at my house last Wednesday night?”
“What kind of a message?”
I explained to him about the piece of paper Ginny had found in my yard. “No,” replied Chris. “I didn’t see it. Neeny didn’t send me a note. He wasn’t that happy to have me come up to the house.”
“Somebody signed his name and tried to lure you up there,” I said. “Now listen, Chris, all hell has broken loose since you left. I want you to head back to Alpine.” He started to argue, but I ran right over his words. “We think we know what happened to your father.” I avoided telling him about the remains. That news shouldn’t be delivered over the phone.
Chris let out a few obscene one-syllable words. “Won’t the sheriff arrest me as soon as I come back?”
“No, of course not,” I assured him, even though I wasn’t certain. “Gibb Frazier, my driver, has been killed, too. You weren’t around when that happened.” At least Chris claimed he’d been in the Bay Area, but it suddenly dawned on me that he could be lying. After all, he was the one person who knew exactly where I kept that extra set of keys.
But I didn’t want to think about that just now. The important thing was to get Chris back to Alpine. At Carla’s desk, Vida was on line three, calling the ski lodge. She gave me a frantic nod and mouthed the single syllable, Tom.
“A friend of mine is coming to Seattle this morning,” I told Chris, then went into details about the location of the county courthouse. Chris should plan on meeting Tom there at two o’clock. He would recognize him because I’d have him bring along a copy of last week’s Advocate. “Where are you now?” I inquired, fearful that the rendezvous would never come off.
“The bus depot. I just got in.” Chris was beginning to sound nervous.
With more admonitions to be sure to meet Tom, I finally hung up and pressed the button for line three. Tom was still distant, but he agreed to bring Chris back. “I assume I shouldn’t tell him why I’m at the courthouse,” Tom said in a formal voice.
Carla and Ed were coming through the door together. I tried to think of a way to ease the strain between Tom and me with most of my staff listening in. “By the way,”
I said to Tom, “Milo left right after you called, but his deputies stayed on to search my car. Gibb’s killer drove it to Reiter.”
Three faces registered surprise. But Tom’s reaction was different. “Then I guess you really do like going it alone,” he remarked. “I’ll see you later.”
Ed looked so downcast that I was sure the murders had hit him harder than I’d expected. But he had other matters on his mind. “I heard Safeway may be coming into town,” he said morosely. “They want to build on the other side of the mall or maybe out by the golf course. God, what a mess that would be! Their media people like to use color inserts!” He made it sound as if their advertising department might ride into Alpine like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Carla, of course, was much more upbeat. “Gee, I can’t believe I missed more bodies! I knew I shouldn’t have gone to Leavenworth for the weekend! But what a blast! I met this wonderful hunk who tried out for the Seahawks and he …” Ginny Burmeister came into the office and Carla rattled on, driving me into my inner sanctum.
Five minutes later, Milo called to say that Dr. Starr had confirmed that the remains from the mineshaft were those of Hector Ramirez. He had made only two visits to the dentist, both in 1975, after he’d chipped a tooth while working on the Pine Street L.I.D. project. But that, coupled with the X-rays, was enough for identification. I relayed the news to my staff. Carla put on a tragic face, Ginny remarked that violence was often triggered by untidiness, and Ed complained that dentists overcharged. Vida, however, grew thoughtful.
“Did they find a bullet yet?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “Milo would have told us, wouldn’t he?”
Vida gave me an enigmatic look. “Maybe.”
Thanks to the time I’d put in over the weekend, we had the paper well in hand by noon. Since there still might be late-breaking developments, I wasn’t ready to call it a day. At ten after one, Tom phoned from Seattle. Vida and I were alone in the news office, with Carla out to lunch in more ways than one, Ed supposedly getting an ad from Stuart’s Stereo, and Ginny paying bills in the front office.